Jerry Navarra’s mind is whirring. His mother, 92, is ailing; his second grandchild is due any day; and he’s engaged in a $1 billion East Village redevelopment project.

But for 8.5 seconds, the furniture mogul has to act as if his only desire is to save you $1,000 on a mattress.

“Advil, $9.99,” he said, waving a box of pills in front of a camera crew. “Walgreens generic, $3.49. The difference? Just the price. Same’s true with memory foam mattresses.”

More than 40 years ago, Jerry’s father rechristened his San Diego furniture store. Strep’s Warehouse, named for a former partner, became Jerome’s, after the Navarra family’s only son. A few years later, Dad maneuvered a reluctant Jerry (only strangers call him “Jerome”) into making his first ad. Now 63, Jerry is the veteran of 4,000 TV and radio spots, plus countless print ads — many of which have appeared in U-T San Diego — assuring buyers they’ll receive the rock-bottom “Jerry’s price.”

Since Jerry became his family enterprise’s pitchman, the single downtown shop has grown into a retailing juggernaut of seven stores — soon to be eight — peddling shiploads of bargain and midpriced furniture. In the process, a modest man has become a local celebrity, as recognizable as Chargers quarterback Philip Rivers.

“In restaurants, people come up to Dad all the time,” said Jim Navarra, 33, Jerry’s oldest son. “It’s totally surreal, people wanting your dad’s autograph when he’s just a spokesman for a furniture chain.”

While polite to fans, Jerry admits he’s uncomfortable with the attention. His life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. He’s had to make some adjustments.

He’s had to pay Jerry’s price.

‘Badges of strength’

Today’s ad shoot occurs on the second floor of Jerome’s West Morena Boulevard store, but it’s business as usual elsewhere in the arena-sized warehouse. A dozen sales associates roam 93,000 square feet of sofas, recliners, beds, dressers, tables, entertainment units, barbecue ranges and patio sets, greeting customers as they hike from room to room to room.

Upstairs, the film crew tinkers with lights and director Tom Signaigo checks camera angles. Between takes, Jerry thinks about his mother and, given her health, life in general.

“I think the hardest thing is when people feel they are no longer useful,” he said. “She no longer cooks.”

Some of Jerry’s earliest memories involve the aromas in his parents’ Mission Hills home. The daughter of a Sicilian fisherman, Esther Navarra had a way with Italian delicacies, Mexican dishes and seafood.

If his mother ruled the kitchen and his father, Jim, a furniture shop, the boy dreamed of conquering other realms. Medicine, perhaps. Sam Patella, who met Jerry when both entered St. Augustine High in 1962, remembers a boy who was more serious than your average freshman.

“He could be a goofball at times,” Patella said, “but he was always well-focused and well-grounded.”

As a teen, Jerry absorbed the macho atmosphere of the furniture store’s warehouse. “The guys who worked in the warehouse had these badges of strength,” he recalled. “If you could lift a sofa over your head, that was one. Or put your fist through a refrigerator box — an empty one!”

Visions of medical school faded. Jerry began his undergraduate studies at San Diego State and finished it at USC, graduating from the latter school with a business degree in 1970. Visiting San Diego that summer, he worried that his father was working too hard.

“I’ll move home and help you out for six months,” Jerry said.

The son found that he liked buying and selling, enjoyed the straightforward attitude of his new colleagues, marveled that most deals were concluded with a handshake instead of a mound of legal documents. And he had some ideas.

“We should be open Sundays,” he told his dad. “That’s a great shopping day.”

“Fine,” the older Navarra replied. “But I’m not working Sundays.”

Gradually, Jerome’s became Jerry’s responsibility.

“Six months,” he says, “turned into 40 years.”

‘My dad outfoxed me’

While Jerry insists he has no regrets, long stretches of his life’s road were charted by others. His father wanted Jerry to appear in Jerome’s ads, but the son wanted to leave that job to professional actors. One day in 1972 or ’73, father and son drove to XETV’s studio in Tijuana to oversee yet another commercial shoot. This time, the on-air talent didn’t show.

After railing against unreliable actors, Dad made a suggestion: “Why don’t you appear in this one?”

To this day, Jerry has his suspicions about that “missing” actor: “My dad outfoxed me.”

Since then, Jerry has been the business’ living, breathing symbol. For decades, this clean-shaven, bespectacled spokesman has been a sort of Dorian Gray with a passion for mattresses and dinette sets. Except for the graying hair, Jerry appears ageless.

“We recently found a spot from 1990 or ’91,” said Sandy Jack, a producer for Satellite Video, the company that makes Jerome’s ads. “Gosh, if he just wore the same clothes, he’d look exactly the same.”

Being himself on camera, though, takes work. Around the 10th take, Jerry is still trying to nail down the script’s first 8.5 seconds.

“I think the cadence needs to be a bit slower,” advises Jim, Jerry’s son and Jerome’s marketing director.

The next take, 9.25 seconds, has a more relaxed feel.

“Better,” Jim says. “This time, why don’t we try …”

If Jerry’s father made him the company’s face, his children help maintain that image. Adrienne, 36, manages the properties and supervises the safety and wellness programs. Mark, 30, directs the supply chain and buys the mattresses — and is married to Annie, daughter of U-T owner Douglas Manchester. All of Jerry’s kids, then, followed him into the family trade.

“I never expected that,” Jerry says.

‘Beyond furniture’

Furniture made Jerry successful — Jerome’s sells one out of every four mattresses in San Diego County — but outside of the viewing and listening public, it doesn’t define the man. He still lives in Mission Hills, but this passionate gardener also maintains a home in Mulegé, Mexico, where he tends olive trees. He fishes, plays handball, raises Australian grass finches, keeps bees and attends long meetings about downtown redevelopment.

“He has a vision that goes way beyond furniture,” said Sherman Harmer, a local developer.

For years, Jerome’s warehouse operations were scattered across six East Village blocks. That enterprise is now in Rancho Bernardo, but the Navarras still own portions of five of those blocks. Working with developers, financiers and city planners, Jerry is eager to create a downtown neighborhood of lofts, townhomes, student housing, shops, offices, a 4.5-acre park, artists’ studios, restaurants, theaters.

“You can live, work and play in one area,” he said. “This keeps more people off the interstates. All of a sudden, you don’t have to widen freeways, you don’t have to put in more mass transit.”

Still in the planning stages, the project will take 10 years or more to complete. “The idea,” said Harmer, a partner in this venture, “is that he is doing something that would be a legacy for his family.”

A legacy more enduring than thousands of 29.5-second commercials. Not that these ads are a piddling accomplishment, something anyone could do. Jerry may look ageless, but some day he’ll need an on-camera replacement.

In a recent ad, he appears with his sons. But Jerry was even more impressed by an earlier commercial starring Stefanie, Jim’s wife.